Charm School Victorian
by Holly go lightly1
Summary: The life of the benign and severely overlooked Flitwick. *Chapter Two: Poor Snape! How Flitiwck saves Snape from McGonnogal......*
1. Munchkin?

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Chapter One

A Callow Man of Fifty-Four

Jove Flitwick sat beside Madam Pomfry as he watched the horde of apprehensive and hushed-voice first-year pupils troop in, their eyes darting around the room in great august or cavalier indifference, depending on their personalities. He'd always been a very congenial little boy, and remembered being astounded when he marched into the Great Hall for the first time with vivid perfection.

"Gina, who's that?" he heard someone inquire of their older sister.

"Who's who?"

"The munchkin sitting next to the woman with the red hair."

Jove's eyes dilated and he ceased harmlessly twiddling his thumbs beneath the table. _Munchkin_? Well, he was rather diminutive, reaching at only 4'6", and he deduced that, yes, that must be the first impression received when first laying eyes on him. But he continued to beam quite nicely. He'd come to take such talk as utter human chatter and he did not blame or avidly detest students that remarked on his height. 

Well, almost.

Craning his small neck and feigning kneading a spasm out of it, he caught a glimpse of Sophie Tote, the thirty-three year-old Muggle Arts professor. A slight wash of crimson swept over his face. Had she been looking at him? He had been almost certain....No, she hadn't. Ah, well, maybe next time. Highly mortified to be even considered being recognized, the fifty-four year-old Jove settled back into his seat and fiddled with the jeweled band on the brim of his goblet.

All through Albus's annual beginning-of-the-year oration, Jove mulled over Sophie. He didn't know what fascinated him so about her. She'd never spoken to him, and the only time she'd ever exhibited that she was informed of his earthly presence was when she delivered a stack of new Charms notebooks and left a tiny note on the spine of one of the books reading:

Professor Jove Flitwick------

They can also get these in blue or green.

Professor Sophie Tote 

For days afterwards, he read the note over and over until he had memorized every stroke of her quill. At first, he believed that the fact she'd written in red ink had meant something ("Jove, you old dog," Albus had chuckled when he caught sight of the note. "Red's the color of passion."), but crestfallenly abandoned any such notions when Minerva had squinted at it through her oblongs specs and snipped (rather loudly, too), "You know she only writes in red ink because it's the only color that's cheap."

Minerva was a psychotic hag and Jove quietly wished she'd get a smart kick upside the head.

Anyhow.

Oh, was the speech over so soon? It must be; beside his hands, he saw the table littered with bountiful amounts of food and beverages. Hmm. It'd been so much longer last year. Or was that just his imagination? Ooh, crumpets....

Poppy Pomfry was gaily gabbing with a rather apathetic Sophie, who he observed was nibbling only at a few crisp, dressing-drizzled leaves of lettuce, her ebony eyes sliding about the room in overt ennui. Her skin, blemish-free and creaseless, reminded him fondly of the same tincture and texture of the shell of the chocolate Easter eggs his nephews often sent him. He was so fond of them. Her sweeping African hair was not straightened into a sheet of raven-black, as was the popular fashion, but plaited into back-length twists. 

An original! Oh, how fond he was of creativity.

Then...she stood up and left. Oh. The anguish snaked through his spleen like a web of despair, a mesh of disappointment. _Don't leave!_, he yearned to cry. _Let me speak to you! I've been wanting to for seven years. Come back! Come back!_

"Sophie!" he exclaimed in a voice he'd attempted to wield and make sound suave but only reached the world as squealing squeak.

DAAAAAAMN!

The call tolled throughout the entire hall like the pealing of a brass bell of Notre Dame, much to his shock. He put his tiny fingers to his lips and nourished himself on his fingernails. He hadn't meant to squeak! It had slipped out. It always did. No matter how he toiled, it forever slipped.

Thankfully, not a soul (not even Sophie) had taken notice. She glided out of the room, a cinnamon-skinned Valhalla in a billowing haze of garnet robes and tasteful copper bangles.

And she was gone.

Oh well.

*I just realized a few days ago how unappreciated Flitwick is. I felt so bad. Tell me what you think. I'll take this down if nobody thinks I should keep it going, but I just wanted to delve into Flitwick's ambiguous and cheerful character. You know, his name (Jove) is a shortened form of the word "jovial" or "happy and kind." Whatever. At least it's not blatant.*


	2. Lo-lo la!

*From the Desk of Miss go lightly: 

So, so far, this has received four reviews. Well...splendid, I suppose, giving to the fact that I composed it in, roughly, fifteen minutes. Quite dear. I do encourage more reviews. Pardon my grammar and spelling, which has been defined as not resembling modern vernacular. Oh well. Ooh, crumpets......

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Chapter Two

Lo-Lo La!

Jove was amiably strolling down the corridor to the teacher's quarters, cleanly categorized texts clasped in his arms, trademarked modest beam on his well-creased and careworn countenance. It was after supper, the period of time in which he felt most content with himself. 

Entering through the jade, gilt-flecked threshold towards the room, he complied with the portrait of the youthful, sun-dappled lad that was Merlin by articulating the password that would allow him to enter the lounge. "Gin and tonic."

The portrait furrowed its fair eyebrows at him, the broad forehead crinkling. "I'm sorry, attempt again."

"Oh! Well, that's what I'm sure it was. What I'm sure it ought to be. Um...oh, _dear_, Crisped Clinking?"

"Let's begin again, sir....."

"It's Brine Rib," a drawl behind him informed him.

Jove swiveled about, the beam lightening considerably. "Severus, my good companion! How very good to see you, how was your summer? I do remember you confessing to visiting your parents in Wales."

It was true, Severus was a very cherished friend. Though they differed drastically (in height, demeanors, qualms on instructing, overall lifestyles) they were truly very close. He was somewhat of a son to Jove, who recalled very fondly instructing Severus through his truly gauche years as an adolescent. Now, at the age of thirty-six, Snape bore no resemblance to the ungainly lad who stumbled along, staggering on his exceedingly lengthy and lean legs like a sneering, malnourished crane and hissing at the schoolgirls that tittered at his utter gawkiness.

But socially and tactfully, Jove admitted that the man was no different and far from a ladies charmer. Oh well. Severus was dexterous and smart, but hapless love-wise.

"Yes, I did visit my kin in Wales." Severus dutifully relieved Jove of a great deal of the cumbersome volumes in his arms and waited humbly for Jove to enter the quarters before him. "And it was another farcical scheme to wed me off."

"Oh, dear," Jove sighed. "They try so hard for you. My family's candidly given up. Anyhow, who was it this time?"

"Some horribly fleshy wench called Sirena Dukoff. Ugh. I narrowly recuperated."

Jove grinned.

"Honestly! Where can a man find a woman with a sensible name nowadays? It's always 'Florantine' or 'Calypso' or 'Khrystle' or something quite odd. I haven't caught sight of a 'Bridget' or 'Lucy' in a decade. Or at least not one in her thirties."

The teachers' lounge was balmy and sweet-scented, due to the ivory tea pots circulating among the genuinely appreciative and thoroughly haggard teachers, who even took to patting the little House Elf (Twigchig) on the soft flesh between his domed ears as he dutifully held out a cherry wood briefcase of tea bags to each of the teachers.

"Oh, how thoughtful!" the easily-enchanted Jove exclaimed. "That was such a dear little thing to do, provide the teachers with tea. Don't you think, Severus?"

"I'd rather have vodka," he returned dryly, but he exchanged a solid smile with Jove before taking the proffered pot from Sybil Trelwalny's hennaed fingertips and filling two periwinkle-tinted cups to the brim with the scorching water, which made Jove's poorly circulated fingers buzz pleasantly.

"Jove."

Drat, drat, and drat once more. Why must the single person he hated above all others in the human race plague him incessantly? 

"Why, helloooooo, Minerva!" he drawled with feigned chirpiness that made Severus's vacant ebony eyes glint with mirth as he battled to keep sampling his beverage with indifference without gulping down the searing water in a guffaw. "How preeeeeetty you look in those new speeeeeeectacles. How aaaaaaaaaare you, my dear?"

Now there was a sublime example of a specimen that did not age well: Minerva McGonnogal. Even in her youth (whenever Jove surmised that was...perhaps around the birth of Christ, perhaps?), she'd looked masculine and featureless. Now, at an age in the same field as Jove and Reubus's, she looked astoundingly repulsive, like a slab of poor wood or a tattered leather wallet.

"Fine, fine," was the brusque reply. Keep on lapping up that mint tea, Jove thought airily, you still smell as if you ate a pie baked in sulfur. Minerva then eyed Severus in a less than mannerly way that made the man's eyes dilated in horror as he set down his cup with a disturbed _clink_. "And _you_, Severus?"

Oh dear. Jove would have personally stapled his eyelids closed than to have Minerva McGonnogal fancy him. Candidly, a similar empathetic notion was coursing through Severus's skull, Jove could almost tangibly sense it. "I'm in a relationship," he informed her curtly.

"That's _good_."

Hmm. Obviously courting qualms held no value to Minerva. Jove pursed his lips together to smother a snicker. Poor boy.

"I _had_ hoped that the heads of the Houses," Minerva continued, "could have a _meeting_ soon, don't you think? I see the practicality in such a doing."

"Why most ceeeeeertainly, Minerva!" Jove boomed, tickled to see the startled look on Minerva's hawk countenance. She'd obviously not been inquiring of him, and had most likely even forgotten his presence. No matter. Retaliation was sweet. "It'd be such a daaaaarling idea, Minnie! Oh, do ask Sprout, darling, she's over there and I think she's leaving soon. I wouldn't want heeeeeeer to not hear of it. Why not pose the question to heeeer? You girls are so fabulous at planning, we men would simply snarl it up. Tut tut, run along now."

Minerva looked unnerved. "But---"

"Tut tut."

"_But---_"

"Overtly, the first four 'tut tuts' weren't sufficient." Jove grinned maliciously. "Pleasant night, then. Come along, Severus."

They left a gawping Minerva, who was now being approached but a befuddled Sprout who demanded who had called her name, and guided Severus back into the main corridor.

"I owe you a sincere debt of gratitude," Severus hissed, eyeing the doorway in a leery manner, lest Minerva should follow him. "It wouldn't be quite so disturbing, had the woman not taught _me_ when I was a pupil here. Ugh. Disturbing."

" 'Twas an honor," Jove beamed sincerely.

"Listen, it's only eight o'clock and I'm aching to get out of this filthy school. I know of a pub not too much of a distance from here---"

"Frankly, I'd enjoy that, but----"

"Come on, now. Varied assortment of females. Even specimens of your stature."

"I resent that."

"Jove, you know what I meant." There was a faint trace of eagerness and entreaty in his tone. "I haven't clinked glasses with a decent woman since June, and that is a truly pitiful fact."

"I'd love to, but I have a meeting with my accountant."

Severus's broad, widow's peak forehead crinkled. "So late in the evening?"

"It's the only time of day she can see me."

"_'She_'?" Severus echoed puckishly.

"My niece," Jove informed him a tad irritably. 

"Wendy? That lass that so highly resembles a palomino pony in photographs?"

"Don't be unkind." Jove swatted him mildly. "We can't have everything."

"She's living proof." 

Before Jove could part his lips to upbraid him, Minerva flounced through the portal and smiled thinly at Severus, who strangled a squeal at the sight of her.

"Night, then!" Jove called lightheartedly, almost trotting down the corridor as he warbled in a tone loud enough for Severus alone to find audible:

__

Although my strength is lacking,

Although my skin is fair,

I have in my arms a scraggly wench

With a bun of slick gray hair.

And though I neither add nor spell

And though I own no bed,

My wench is pleased in my presence

Though age has turned her red.

Hi hi! Diddle-hi ho!

She's old and tough and dour.

Hi hi! Diddle-hi ho!

Her breath's forever sour.

Hi hi! Diddle-hi ho!

If I were a man of money

Hi hi! Diddle-hi ho!

I'd find another honey.

Lo-lo la!

I'd find another honey.

What great fortune he'd grown up with an quarter-dwarf grand-aunt and an Elfin nursemaid. Life through song was so much more amusing.....

*The song is very sucky, but I wrote it really quickly and attempted to make it a la Tolkein and failed miserably. Heheh! More McGonnogal bashing. I hate her. 


End file.
